88
BINGOThe miller's mill-dog lay at the mill-door,And his name was Little Bingo.B with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,And his name was Little Bingo.The miller he bought a cask of ale,And he called it right good Stingo.S with a T, T with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,And he called it right good Stingo.The miller he went to town one day,And he bought a wedding Ring-o!R with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,And he bought a wedding Ring-o!
The miller's mill-dog lay at the mill-door,And his name was Little Bingo.B with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,And his name was Little Bingo.The miller he bought a cask of ale,And he called it right good Stingo.S with a T, T with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,And he called it right good Stingo.The miller he went to town one day,And he bought a wedding Ring-o!R with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,And he bought a wedding Ring-o!
The miller's mill-dog lay at the mill-door,And his name was Little Bingo.B with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,And his name was Little Bingo.
The miller's mill-dog lay at the mill-door,
And his name was Little Bingo.
B with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,
And his name was Little Bingo.
The miller he bought a cask of ale,And he called it right good Stingo.S with a T, T with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,And he called it right good Stingo.
The miller he bought a cask of ale,
And he called it right good Stingo.
S with a T, T with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,
And he called it right good Stingo.
The miller he went to town one day,And he bought a wedding Ring-o!R with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,And he bought a wedding Ring-o!
The miller he went to town one day,
And he bought a wedding Ring-o!
R with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,
And he bought a wedding Ring-o!
89
THE IRISH HARPER AND HIS DOGOn the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;No harp like my own could so cheerily play,And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,She said—while the sorrow was big at her heart—"Oh! remember your Sheelah, when far, far away,And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray."Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure,And he constantly loved me, although I was poor;When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey,And he licked me for kindness—my poor dog Tray.Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,And I played a lament for my poor dog Tray.Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?To my sweet native village, so far, far away,I can never return with my poor dog Tray.Thomas Campbell
On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;No harp like my own could so cheerily play,And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,She said—while the sorrow was big at her heart—"Oh! remember your Sheelah, when far, far away,And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray."Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure,And he constantly loved me, although I was poor;When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey,And he licked me for kindness—my poor dog Tray.Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,And I played a lament for my poor dog Tray.Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?To my sweet native village, so far, far away,I can never return with my poor dog Tray.Thomas Campbell
On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;No harp like my own could so cheerily play,And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.
On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,
No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;
No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.
When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,She said—while the sorrow was big at her heart—"Oh! remember your Sheelah, when far, far away,And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray."
When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,
She said—while the sorrow was big at her heart—
"Oh! remember your Sheelah, when far, far away,
And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray."
Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure,And he constantly loved me, although I was poor;When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.
Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure,
And he constantly loved me, although I was poor;
When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,
I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.
When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey,And he licked me for kindness—my poor dog Tray.
When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,
And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,
How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey,
And he licked me for kindness—my poor dog Tray.
Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,And I played a lament for my poor dog Tray.
Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
And I played a lament for my poor dog Tray.
Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?To my sweet native village, so far, far away,I can never return with my poor dog Tray.Thomas Campbell
Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?
To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never return with my poor dog Tray.
Thomas Campbell
90
POOR OLD HORSEMy clothing was once of the linsey woolsey fine,My tail it grew at length, my coat did likewise shine;But now I'm growing old; my beauty does decay,My master frowns upon me; one day I heard him say,Poor old horse: poor old horse.Once I was kept in the stable snug and warm,To keep my tender limbs from any cold or harm;But now, in open fields, I am forced for to go,In all sorts of weather, let it be hail, rain, freeze, or snow.Poor old horse: poor old horse.Once I was fed on the very best corn and hayThat ever grew in yon fields, or in yon meadows gay;But now there's no such doing can I find at all,I'm glad to pick the green sprouts that grow behind yon wall.Poor old horse: poor old horse."You are old, you are cold, you are deaf, dull, dumb and slow,You are not fit for anything, or in my team to draw.You have eaten all my hay, you have spoiled all my straw,So hang him, whip, stick him, to the huntsman let him go."Poor old horse: poor old horse.My hide unto the tanners then I would freely give,My body to the hound dogs, I would rather die than live,Likewise my poor old bones that have carried you many a mile,Over hedges, ditches, brooks, bridges, likewise gates and stiles.Poor old horse: poor old horse.
My clothing was once of the linsey woolsey fine,My tail it grew at length, my coat did likewise shine;But now I'm growing old; my beauty does decay,My master frowns upon me; one day I heard him say,Poor old horse: poor old horse.Once I was kept in the stable snug and warm,To keep my tender limbs from any cold or harm;But now, in open fields, I am forced for to go,In all sorts of weather, let it be hail, rain, freeze, or snow.Poor old horse: poor old horse.Once I was fed on the very best corn and hayThat ever grew in yon fields, or in yon meadows gay;But now there's no such doing can I find at all,I'm glad to pick the green sprouts that grow behind yon wall.Poor old horse: poor old horse."You are old, you are cold, you are deaf, dull, dumb and slow,You are not fit for anything, or in my team to draw.You have eaten all my hay, you have spoiled all my straw,So hang him, whip, stick him, to the huntsman let him go."Poor old horse: poor old horse.My hide unto the tanners then I would freely give,My body to the hound dogs, I would rather die than live,Likewise my poor old bones that have carried you many a mile,Over hedges, ditches, brooks, bridges, likewise gates and stiles.Poor old horse: poor old horse.
My clothing was once of the linsey woolsey fine,My tail it grew at length, my coat did likewise shine;But now I'm growing old; my beauty does decay,My master frowns upon me; one day I heard him say,Poor old horse: poor old horse.
My clothing was once of the linsey woolsey fine,
My tail it grew at length, my coat did likewise shine;
But now I'm growing old; my beauty does decay,
My master frowns upon me; one day I heard him say,
Poor old horse: poor old horse.
Once I was kept in the stable snug and warm,To keep my tender limbs from any cold or harm;But now, in open fields, I am forced for to go,In all sorts of weather, let it be hail, rain, freeze, or snow.Poor old horse: poor old horse.
Once I was kept in the stable snug and warm,
To keep my tender limbs from any cold or harm;
But now, in open fields, I am forced for to go,
In all sorts of weather, let it be hail, rain, freeze, or snow.
Poor old horse: poor old horse.
Once I was fed on the very best corn and hayThat ever grew in yon fields, or in yon meadows gay;But now there's no such doing can I find at all,I'm glad to pick the green sprouts that grow behind yon wall.Poor old horse: poor old horse.
Once I was fed on the very best corn and hay
That ever grew in yon fields, or in yon meadows gay;
But now there's no such doing can I find at all,
I'm glad to pick the green sprouts that grow behind yon wall.
Poor old horse: poor old horse.
"You are old, you are cold, you are deaf, dull, dumb and slow,You are not fit for anything, or in my team to draw.You have eaten all my hay, you have spoiled all my straw,So hang him, whip, stick him, to the huntsman let him go."Poor old horse: poor old horse.
"You are old, you are cold, you are deaf, dull, dumb and slow,
You are not fit for anything, or in my team to draw.
You have eaten all my hay, you have spoiled all my straw,
So hang him, whip, stick him, to the huntsman let him go."
Poor old horse: poor old horse.
My hide unto the tanners then I would freely give,My body to the hound dogs, I would rather die than live,Likewise my poor old bones that have carried you many a mile,Over hedges, ditches, brooks, bridges, likewise gates and stiles.Poor old horse: poor old horse.
My hide unto the tanners then I would freely give,
My body to the hound dogs, I would rather die than live,
Likewise my poor old bones that have carried you many a mile,
Over hedges, ditches, brooks, bridges, likewise gates and stiles.
Poor old horse: poor old horse.
91
AY ME, ALAS, HEIGH HO!Ay me, alas, heigh ho, heigh ho!Thus doth Messalina goUp and down the house a-crying,For her monkey lies a-dying.Death, thou art too cruelTo bereave her of her jewel,Or to make a seizureOf her only treasure.If her monkey die,She will sit and cry,Fie fie fie fie fie!
Ay me, alas, heigh ho, heigh ho!Thus doth Messalina goUp and down the house a-crying,For her monkey lies a-dying.Death, thou art too cruelTo bereave her of her jewel,Or to make a seizureOf her only treasure.If her monkey die,She will sit and cry,Fie fie fie fie fie!
Ay me, alas, heigh ho, heigh ho!Thus doth Messalina goUp and down the house a-crying,For her monkey lies a-dying.Death, thou art too cruelTo bereave her of her jewel,Or to make a seizureOf her only treasure.If her monkey die,She will sit and cry,Fie fie fie fie fie!
Ay me, alas, heigh ho, heigh ho!
Thus doth Messalina go
Up and down the house a-crying,
For her monkey lies a-dying.
Death, thou art too cruel
To bereave her of her jewel,
Or to make a seizure
Of her only treasure.
If her monkey die,
She will sit and cry,
Fie fie fie fie fie!
92
THE FLYOnce musing as I sat,And candle burning by,When all were hushed, I might discernA simple, sely fly;That flew before mine eyes,With free rejoicing heart,And here and there with wings did play,As void of pain and smart.Sometime by me she satWhen she had played her fill;And ever when she rested hadAbout she fluttered still.When I perceived her wellRejoicing in her place,"O happy fly!" (quoth I), and ekeO worm in happy case!Which of us two is best?I that have reason? No:But thou that reason art without,And therefore void of woe.I live, and so dost thou:But I live all in pain,And subject am to one, alas!That makes my grief her gain.Thou livest, but feel'st no grief;No love doth thee torment.A happy thing for me it were(If God were so content)That thou with pen were placèd here,And I sat in thy place:Then I should joy as thou dost now,And thou should'st wail thy case.Barnabe Googe
Once musing as I sat,And candle burning by,When all were hushed, I might discernA simple, sely fly;That flew before mine eyes,With free rejoicing heart,And here and there with wings did play,As void of pain and smart.Sometime by me she satWhen she had played her fill;And ever when she rested hadAbout she fluttered still.When I perceived her wellRejoicing in her place,"O happy fly!" (quoth I), and ekeO worm in happy case!Which of us two is best?I that have reason? No:But thou that reason art without,And therefore void of woe.I live, and so dost thou:But I live all in pain,And subject am to one, alas!That makes my grief her gain.Thou livest, but feel'st no grief;No love doth thee torment.A happy thing for me it were(If God were so content)That thou with pen were placèd here,And I sat in thy place:Then I should joy as thou dost now,And thou should'st wail thy case.Barnabe Googe
Once musing as I sat,And candle burning by,When all were hushed, I might discernA simple, sely fly;That flew before mine eyes,With free rejoicing heart,And here and there with wings did play,As void of pain and smart.Sometime by me she satWhen she had played her fill;And ever when she rested hadAbout she fluttered still.When I perceived her wellRejoicing in her place,"O happy fly!" (quoth I), and ekeO worm in happy case!Which of us two is best?I that have reason? No:But thou that reason art without,And therefore void of woe.I live, and so dost thou:But I live all in pain,And subject am to one, alas!That makes my grief her gain.Thou livest, but feel'st no grief;No love doth thee torment.A happy thing for me it were(If God were so content)That thou with pen were placèd here,And I sat in thy place:Then I should joy as thou dost now,And thou should'st wail thy case.Barnabe Googe
Once musing as I sat,
And candle burning by,
When all were hushed, I might discern
A simple, sely fly;
That flew before mine eyes,
With free rejoicing heart,
And here and there with wings did play,
As void of pain and smart.
Sometime by me she sat
When she had played her fill;
And ever when she rested had
About she fluttered still.
When I perceived her well
Rejoicing in her place,
"O happy fly!" (quoth I), and eke
O worm in happy case!
Which of us two is best?
I that have reason? No:
But thou that reason art without,
And therefore void of woe.
I live, and so dost thou:
But I live all in pain,
And subject am to one, alas!
That makes my grief her gain.
Thou livest, but feel'st no grief;
No love doth thee torment.
A happy thing for me it were
(If God were so content)
That thou with pen were placèd here,
And I sat in thy place:
Then I should joy as thou dost now,
And thou should'st wail thy case.
Barnabe Googe
93
BÊTE HUMAINERiding through Ruwu swamp, about sunrise,I saw the world awake; and as the rayTouched the tall grasses where they sleeping lay,Lo, the bright air alive with dragonflies:With brittle wings aquiver, and great eyesPiloting crimson bodies, slender and gay.I aimed at one, and struck it, and it layBroken and lifeless, with fast-fading dyes ...Then my soul sickened with a sudden painAnd horror, at my own careless cruelty,That in an idle moment I had slainA creature whose sweet life it is to fly:Like beasts that prey with tooth and claw ...Nay, theyMust slay to live, but what excuse had I?Francis Brett Young
Riding through Ruwu swamp, about sunrise,I saw the world awake; and as the rayTouched the tall grasses where they sleeping lay,Lo, the bright air alive with dragonflies:With brittle wings aquiver, and great eyesPiloting crimson bodies, slender and gay.I aimed at one, and struck it, and it layBroken and lifeless, with fast-fading dyes ...Then my soul sickened with a sudden painAnd horror, at my own careless cruelty,That in an idle moment I had slainA creature whose sweet life it is to fly:Like beasts that prey with tooth and claw ...Nay, theyMust slay to live, but what excuse had I?Francis Brett Young
Riding through Ruwu swamp, about sunrise,I saw the world awake; and as the rayTouched the tall grasses where they sleeping lay,Lo, the bright air alive with dragonflies:With brittle wings aquiver, and great eyesPiloting crimson bodies, slender and gay.I aimed at one, and struck it, and it layBroken and lifeless, with fast-fading dyes ...Then my soul sickened with a sudden painAnd horror, at my own careless cruelty,That in an idle moment I had slainA creature whose sweet life it is to fly:Like beasts that prey with tooth and claw ...Nay, theyMust slay to live, but what excuse had I?Francis Brett Young
Riding through Ruwu swamp, about sunrise,
I saw the world awake; and as the ray
Touched the tall grasses where they sleeping lay,
Lo, the bright air alive with dragonflies:
With brittle wings aquiver, and great eyes
Piloting crimson bodies, slender and gay.
I aimed at one, and struck it, and it lay
Broken and lifeless, with fast-fading dyes ...
Then my soul sickened with a sudden pain
And horror, at my own careless cruelty,
That in an idle moment I had slain
A creature whose sweet life it is to fly:
Like beasts that prey with tooth and claw ...
Nay, they
Must slay to live, but what excuse had I?
Francis Brett Young
94
THE LAMBLittle Lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,By the stream, and o'er the mead;Gave thee clothing of delight,Softest clothing, woolly, bright;Gave thee such a tender voice,Making all the vales rejoice?Little Lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?Little Lamb, I'll tell thee,Little Lamb, I'll tell thee:He is called by thy name,For He calls Himself a Lamb.He is meek, and He is mild;He became a little child.I a child, and thou a lamb,We are callèd by His name.Little Lamb, God bless thee!Little Lamb, God bless thee!William Blake
Little Lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,By the stream, and o'er the mead;Gave thee clothing of delight,Softest clothing, woolly, bright;Gave thee such a tender voice,Making all the vales rejoice?Little Lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?Little Lamb, I'll tell thee,Little Lamb, I'll tell thee:He is called by thy name,For He calls Himself a Lamb.He is meek, and He is mild;He became a little child.I a child, and thou a lamb,We are callèd by His name.Little Lamb, God bless thee!Little Lamb, God bless thee!William Blake
Little Lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,By the stream, and o'er the mead;Gave thee clothing of delight,Softest clothing, woolly, bright;Gave thee such a tender voice,Making all the vales rejoice?Little Lamb, who made thee?Dost thou know who made thee?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,
By the stream, and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee,Little Lamb, I'll tell thee:He is called by thy name,For He calls Himself a Lamb.He is meek, and He is mild;He became a little child.I a child, and thou a lamb,We are callèd by His name.Little Lamb, God bless thee!Little Lamb, God bless thee!William Blake
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee:
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are callèd by His name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
William Blake
95
THE SALE OF THE PET LAMBOh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain;It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain;It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain....A thousand flocks were on the hills, a thousand flocks and more,Feeding in sunshine pleasantly; they were the rich man's store:There was the while one little lamb beside a cottage door;A little lamb that rested with the children 'neath the tree,That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to their knee;That had a place within their hearts, one of the family.But want, even as an armèd man, came down upon their shed,The father laboured all day long that his children might be fed,And, one by one, their household things were sold to buy them bread.That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood,Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued."What is the creature's life to us?" said he: "'twill buy us food."Ay, though the children weep all day, and with downdrooping headEach does his small task mournfully, the hungry must be fed;And that which has a price to bring must go to buy us bread."It went. Oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring,But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling,With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing.Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see,Most sorrowful to hear them plead for the lamb so piteously:"Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we?""Let's take him to the broad green hill!" in his impotent despairSaid one strong boy: "let's take him off, the hills are wide and fair;I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there."Oh vain! They took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down,With a strong cord they tied him fast; and o'er the common brown,And o'er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town.The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow,From every thing about the house a mournful thought did borrow;The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow.Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain;It keepeth down the soul of man, as with an iron chain;It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain.Mary Howitt
Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain;It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain;It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain....A thousand flocks were on the hills, a thousand flocks and more,Feeding in sunshine pleasantly; they were the rich man's store:There was the while one little lamb beside a cottage door;A little lamb that rested with the children 'neath the tree,That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to their knee;That had a place within their hearts, one of the family.But want, even as an armèd man, came down upon their shed,The father laboured all day long that his children might be fed,And, one by one, their household things were sold to buy them bread.That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood,Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued."What is the creature's life to us?" said he: "'twill buy us food."Ay, though the children weep all day, and with downdrooping headEach does his small task mournfully, the hungry must be fed;And that which has a price to bring must go to buy us bread."It went. Oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring,But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling,With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing.Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see,Most sorrowful to hear them plead for the lamb so piteously:"Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we?""Let's take him to the broad green hill!" in his impotent despairSaid one strong boy: "let's take him off, the hills are wide and fair;I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there."Oh vain! They took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down,With a strong cord they tied him fast; and o'er the common brown,And o'er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town.The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow,From every thing about the house a mournful thought did borrow;The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow.Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain;It keepeth down the soul of man, as with an iron chain;It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain.Mary Howitt
Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain;It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain;It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain....
Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain;
It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain;
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain....
A thousand flocks were on the hills, a thousand flocks and more,Feeding in sunshine pleasantly; they were the rich man's store:There was the while one little lamb beside a cottage door;
A thousand flocks were on the hills, a thousand flocks and more,
Feeding in sunshine pleasantly; they were the rich man's store:
There was the while one little lamb beside a cottage door;
A little lamb that rested with the children 'neath the tree,That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to their knee;That had a place within their hearts, one of the family.
A little lamb that rested with the children 'neath the tree,
That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to their knee;
That had a place within their hearts, one of the family.
But want, even as an armèd man, came down upon their shed,The father laboured all day long that his children might be fed,And, one by one, their household things were sold to buy them bread.
But want, even as an armèd man, came down upon their shed,
The father laboured all day long that his children might be fed,
And, one by one, their household things were sold to buy them bread.
That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood,Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued."What is the creature's life to us?" said he: "'twill buy us food.
That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood,
Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued.
"What is the creature's life to us?" said he: "'twill buy us food.
"Ay, though the children weep all day, and with downdrooping headEach does his small task mournfully, the hungry must be fed;And that which has a price to bring must go to buy us bread."
"Ay, though the children weep all day, and with downdrooping head
Each does his small task mournfully, the hungry must be fed;
And that which has a price to bring must go to buy us bread."
It went. Oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring,But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling,With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing.
It went. Oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring,
But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling,
With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing.
Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see,Most sorrowful to hear them plead for the lamb so piteously:"Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we?"
Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see,
Most sorrowful to hear them plead for the lamb so piteously:
"Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we?"
"Let's take him to the broad green hill!" in his impotent despairSaid one strong boy: "let's take him off, the hills are wide and fair;I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there."
"Let's take him to the broad green hill!" in his impotent despair
Said one strong boy: "let's take him off, the hills are wide and fair;
I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there."
Oh vain! They took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down,With a strong cord they tied him fast; and o'er the common brown,And o'er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town.
Oh vain! They took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down,
With a strong cord they tied him fast; and o'er the common brown,
And o'er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town.
The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow,From every thing about the house a mournful thought did borrow;The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow.
The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow,
From every thing about the house a mournful thought did borrow;
The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow.
Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain;It keepeth down the soul of man, as with an iron chain;It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain.Mary Howitt
Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain;
It keepeth down the soul of man, as with an iron chain;
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain.
Mary Howitt
96
A CHILD'S PETWhen I sailed out of BaltimoreWith twice a thousand head of sheep,They would not eat, they would not drink,But bleated o'er the deep.Inside the pens we crawled each day,To sort the living from the dead;And when we reached the Mersey's mouth,Had lost five hundred head.Yet every night and day one sheep,That had no fear of man or sea,Stuck through the bars its pleading face,And it was stroked by me.And to the sheep-men standing near,"You see," I said, "this one tame sheep:It seems a child has lost her pet,And cried herself to sleep."So every time we passed it by,Sailing to England's slaughter-house,Eight ragged sheep-men—tramps and thieves—Would stroke that sheep's black nose.William H. Davies
When I sailed out of BaltimoreWith twice a thousand head of sheep,They would not eat, they would not drink,But bleated o'er the deep.Inside the pens we crawled each day,To sort the living from the dead;And when we reached the Mersey's mouth,Had lost five hundred head.Yet every night and day one sheep,That had no fear of man or sea,Stuck through the bars its pleading face,And it was stroked by me.And to the sheep-men standing near,"You see," I said, "this one tame sheep:It seems a child has lost her pet,And cried herself to sleep."So every time we passed it by,Sailing to England's slaughter-house,Eight ragged sheep-men—tramps and thieves—Would stroke that sheep's black nose.William H. Davies
When I sailed out of BaltimoreWith twice a thousand head of sheep,They would not eat, they would not drink,But bleated o'er the deep.
When I sailed out of Baltimore
With twice a thousand head of sheep,
They would not eat, they would not drink,
But bleated o'er the deep.
Inside the pens we crawled each day,To sort the living from the dead;And when we reached the Mersey's mouth,Had lost five hundred head.
Inside the pens we crawled each day,
To sort the living from the dead;
And when we reached the Mersey's mouth,
Had lost five hundred head.
Yet every night and day one sheep,That had no fear of man or sea,Stuck through the bars its pleading face,And it was stroked by me.
Yet every night and day one sheep,
That had no fear of man or sea,
Stuck through the bars its pleading face,
And it was stroked by me.
And to the sheep-men standing near,"You see," I said, "this one tame sheep:It seems a child has lost her pet,And cried herself to sleep."
And to the sheep-men standing near,
"You see," I said, "this one tame sheep:
It seems a child has lost her pet,
And cried herself to sleep."
So every time we passed it by,Sailing to England's slaughter-house,Eight ragged sheep-men—tramps and thieves—Would stroke that sheep's black nose.William H. Davies
So every time we passed it by,
Sailing to England's slaughter-house,
Eight ragged sheep-men—tramps and thieves—
Would stroke that sheep's black nose.
William H. Davies
97
THE SNAREI hear a sudden cry of pain!There is a rabbit in a snare:Now I hear the cry again,But I cannot tell from where.But I cannot tell from whereHe is calling out for aid;Crying on the frightened air,Making everything afraid.Making everything afraid,Wrinkling up his little face,As he cries again for aid;And I cannot find the place!And I cannot find the placeWhere his paw is in the snare:Little one! Oh, little one!I am searching everywhere.James Stephens
I hear a sudden cry of pain!There is a rabbit in a snare:Now I hear the cry again,But I cannot tell from where.But I cannot tell from whereHe is calling out for aid;Crying on the frightened air,Making everything afraid.Making everything afraid,Wrinkling up his little face,As he cries again for aid;And I cannot find the place!And I cannot find the placeWhere his paw is in the snare:Little one! Oh, little one!I am searching everywhere.James Stephens
I hear a sudden cry of pain!There is a rabbit in a snare:Now I hear the cry again,But I cannot tell from where.
I hear a sudden cry of pain!
There is a rabbit in a snare:
Now I hear the cry again,
But I cannot tell from where.
But I cannot tell from whereHe is calling out for aid;Crying on the frightened air,Making everything afraid.
But I cannot tell from where
He is calling out for aid;
Crying on the frightened air,
Making everything afraid.
Making everything afraid,Wrinkling up his little face,As he cries again for aid;And I cannot find the place!
Making everything afraid,
Wrinkling up his little face,
As he cries again for aid;
And I cannot find the place!
And I cannot find the placeWhere his paw is in the snare:Little one! Oh, little one!I am searching everywhere.James Stephens
And I cannot find the place
Where his paw is in the snare:
Little one! Oh, little one!
I am searching everywhere.
James Stephens
98
THE MONK AND HIS PET CATI and my white PangurHave each his special art:His mind is set on hunting mice,Mine is upon my special craft.I love to rest—better than any fame!—With close study at my little book;White Pangur does not envy me:He loves his childish play.When in our house we two are all alone—A tale without tedium!We have—sport never-ending!Something to exercise our wit.At times by feats of derring-doA mouse sticks in his net,While into my net there dropsA difficult problem of hard meaning.He points his full shining eyeAgainst the fence of the wall:I point my clear though feeble eyeAgainst the keenness of science.He rejoices with quick leapsWhen in his sharp claw sticks a mouse:I too rejoice when I have graspedA problem difficult and dearly loved.Though we are thus at all times,Neither hinders the other,Each of us pleased with his own artAmuses himself alone.He is a master of the workWhich every day he does:While I am at my own workTo bring difficulty to clearness.
I and my white PangurHave each his special art:His mind is set on hunting mice,Mine is upon my special craft.I love to rest—better than any fame!—With close study at my little book;White Pangur does not envy me:He loves his childish play.When in our house we two are all alone—A tale without tedium!We have—sport never-ending!Something to exercise our wit.At times by feats of derring-doA mouse sticks in his net,While into my net there dropsA difficult problem of hard meaning.He points his full shining eyeAgainst the fence of the wall:I point my clear though feeble eyeAgainst the keenness of science.He rejoices with quick leapsWhen in his sharp claw sticks a mouse:I too rejoice when I have graspedA problem difficult and dearly loved.Though we are thus at all times,Neither hinders the other,Each of us pleased with his own artAmuses himself alone.He is a master of the workWhich every day he does:While I am at my own workTo bring difficulty to clearness.
I and my white PangurHave each his special art:His mind is set on hunting mice,Mine is upon my special craft.
I and my white Pangur
Have each his special art:
His mind is set on hunting mice,
Mine is upon my special craft.
I love to rest—better than any fame!—With close study at my little book;White Pangur does not envy me:He loves his childish play.
I love to rest—better than any fame!—
With close study at my little book;
White Pangur does not envy me:
He loves his childish play.
When in our house we two are all alone—A tale without tedium!We have—sport never-ending!Something to exercise our wit.
When in our house we two are all alone—
A tale without tedium!
We have—sport never-ending!
Something to exercise our wit.
At times by feats of derring-doA mouse sticks in his net,While into my net there dropsA difficult problem of hard meaning.
At times by feats of derring-do
A mouse sticks in his net,
While into my net there drops
A difficult problem of hard meaning.
He points his full shining eyeAgainst the fence of the wall:I point my clear though feeble eyeAgainst the keenness of science.
He points his full shining eye
Against the fence of the wall:
I point my clear though feeble eye
Against the keenness of science.
He rejoices with quick leapsWhen in his sharp claw sticks a mouse:I too rejoice when I have graspedA problem difficult and dearly loved.
He rejoices with quick leaps
When in his sharp claw sticks a mouse:
I too rejoice when I have grasped
A problem difficult and dearly loved.
Though we are thus at all times,Neither hinders the other,Each of us pleased with his own artAmuses himself alone.
Though we are thus at all times,
Neither hinders the other,
Each of us pleased with his own art
Amuses himself alone.
He is a master of the workWhich every day he does:While I am at my own workTo bring difficulty to clearness.
He is a master of the work
Which every day he does:
While I am at my own work
To bring difficulty to clearness.
99
THE TYGERTyger! Tyger! burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand dare seize the fire?And what shoulder, and what art,Could twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand? and what dread feet?What the hammer? what the chain?In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? what dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp?When the stars threw down their spears,And watered heaven with their tears,Did he smile his work to see?Did He who made the Lamb make thee?Tyger! Tyger! burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eye,Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?William Blake
Tyger! Tyger! burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand dare seize the fire?And what shoulder, and what art,Could twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand? and what dread feet?What the hammer? what the chain?In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? what dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp?When the stars threw down their spears,And watered heaven with their tears,Did he smile his work to see?Did He who made the Lamb make thee?Tyger! Tyger! burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eye,Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?William Blake
Tyger! Tyger! burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the fire of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand dare seize the fire?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art,Could twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand? and what dread feet?
And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? what dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,And watered heaven with their tears,Did he smile his work to see?Did He who made the Lamb make thee?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did He who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eye,Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?William Blake
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
William Blake
100
THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWNThe wanton Troopers riding byHave shot my Fawn, and it will dye.Ungentlemen! they cannot thriveWho killed thee. Thou ne'er didst aliveThem any Harm: alas! nor cou'dThy Death yet do them any Good ...For it was full of sport, and lightOf foot and heart, and did inviteMe to its game; it seemed to blessItself in me; how could I lessThan love it? O, I cannot beUnkind to a beast that loveth me ...With sweetest Milk, and Sugar, firstI it at mine own Fingers nurst;And as it grew, so every DayIt waxed more white and sweet than they.It had so sweet a Breath! And oftI blushed to see its Foot more soft,And white (shall I say than my Hand?)Nay, any Ladie's of the Land.It is a wond'rous Thing how fleet'Twas on those little Silver Feet;With what a pretty skipping Grace,It oft would challenge me the Race;And when 't had left me far away,'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;For it was nimbler much than Hindes,And trod as if on the Four Winds.I have a Garden of my own,But so with Roses over-grown,And Lillies, that you would it guessTo be a little Wilderness;And all the Spring Time of the YearIt only lovèd to be there.Among the Beds of Lillies IHave sought it oft, where it should lye;Yet could not, till it self would rise,Find it, although before mine Eyes:For, in the flaxen Lillies' Shade,It like a Bank of Lillies laid.Upon the Roses it would feed,Until its Lips ev'n seemed to bleed;And then to me 'twould boldly trip,And print those Roses on my Lip.But all its chief Delight was stillOn Roses thus itself to fill,And its pure Virgin Limbs to foldIn whitest sheets of Lillies cold:Had it lived long, it would have beenLillies without, Roses within....Andrew Marvell
The wanton Troopers riding byHave shot my Fawn, and it will dye.Ungentlemen! they cannot thriveWho killed thee. Thou ne'er didst aliveThem any Harm: alas! nor cou'dThy Death yet do them any Good ...For it was full of sport, and lightOf foot and heart, and did inviteMe to its game; it seemed to blessItself in me; how could I lessThan love it? O, I cannot beUnkind to a beast that loveth me ...With sweetest Milk, and Sugar, firstI it at mine own Fingers nurst;And as it grew, so every DayIt waxed more white and sweet than they.It had so sweet a Breath! And oftI blushed to see its Foot more soft,And white (shall I say than my Hand?)Nay, any Ladie's of the Land.It is a wond'rous Thing how fleet'Twas on those little Silver Feet;With what a pretty skipping Grace,It oft would challenge me the Race;And when 't had left me far away,'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;For it was nimbler much than Hindes,And trod as if on the Four Winds.I have a Garden of my own,But so with Roses over-grown,And Lillies, that you would it guessTo be a little Wilderness;And all the Spring Time of the YearIt only lovèd to be there.Among the Beds of Lillies IHave sought it oft, where it should lye;Yet could not, till it self would rise,Find it, although before mine Eyes:For, in the flaxen Lillies' Shade,It like a Bank of Lillies laid.Upon the Roses it would feed,Until its Lips ev'n seemed to bleed;And then to me 'twould boldly trip,And print those Roses on my Lip.But all its chief Delight was stillOn Roses thus itself to fill,And its pure Virgin Limbs to foldIn whitest sheets of Lillies cold:Had it lived long, it would have beenLillies without, Roses within....Andrew Marvell
The wanton Troopers riding byHave shot my Fawn, and it will dye.Ungentlemen! they cannot thriveWho killed thee. Thou ne'er didst aliveThem any Harm: alas! nor cou'dThy Death yet do them any Good ...For it was full of sport, and lightOf foot and heart, and did inviteMe to its game; it seemed to blessItself in me; how could I lessThan love it? O, I cannot beUnkind to a beast that loveth me ...With sweetest Milk, and Sugar, firstI it at mine own Fingers nurst;And as it grew, so every DayIt waxed more white and sweet than they.It had so sweet a Breath! And oftI blushed to see its Foot more soft,And white (shall I say than my Hand?)Nay, any Ladie's of the Land.It is a wond'rous Thing how fleet'Twas on those little Silver Feet;With what a pretty skipping Grace,It oft would challenge me the Race;And when 't had left me far away,'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;For it was nimbler much than Hindes,And trod as if on the Four Winds.I have a Garden of my own,But so with Roses over-grown,And Lillies, that you would it guessTo be a little Wilderness;And all the Spring Time of the YearIt only lovèd to be there.Among the Beds of Lillies IHave sought it oft, where it should lye;Yet could not, till it self would rise,Find it, although before mine Eyes:For, in the flaxen Lillies' Shade,It like a Bank of Lillies laid.Upon the Roses it would feed,Until its Lips ev'n seemed to bleed;And then to me 'twould boldly trip,And print those Roses on my Lip.But all its chief Delight was stillOn Roses thus itself to fill,And its pure Virgin Limbs to foldIn whitest sheets of Lillies cold:Had it lived long, it would have beenLillies without, Roses within....Andrew Marvell
The wanton Troopers riding by
Have shot my Fawn, and it will dye.
Ungentlemen! they cannot thrive
Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive
Them any Harm: alas! nor cou'd
Thy Death yet do them any Good ...
For it was full of sport, and light
Of foot and heart, and did invite
Me to its game; it seemed to bless
Itself in me; how could I less
Than love it? O, I cannot be
Unkind to a beast that loveth me ...
With sweetest Milk, and Sugar, first
I it at mine own Fingers nurst;
And as it grew, so every Day
It waxed more white and sweet than they.
It had so sweet a Breath! And oft
I blushed to see its Foot more soft,
And white (shall I say than my Hand?)
Nay, any Ladie's of the Land.
It is a wond'rous Thing how fleet
'Twas on those little Silver Feet;
With what a pretty skipping Grace,
It oft would challenge me the Race;
And when 't had left me far away,
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
For it was nimbler much than Hindes,
And trod as if on the Four Winds.
I have a Garden of my own,
But so with Roses over-grown,
And Lillies, that you would it guess
To be a little Wilderness;
And all the Spring Time of the Year
It only lovèd to be there.
Among the Beds of Lillies I
Have sought it oft, where it should lye;
Yet could not, till it self would rise,
Find it, although before mine Eyes:
For, in the flaxen Lillies' Shade,
It like a Bank of Lillies laid.
Upon the Roses it would feed,
Until its Lips ev'n seemed to bleed;
And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
And print those Roses on my Lip.
But all its chief Delight was still
On Roses thus itself to fill,
And its pure Virgin Limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of Lillies cold:
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lillies without, Roses within....
Andrew Marvell
101
OF ALL THE BIRDSOf all the birds that I do know,Philip my sparrow hath no peer;For sit she high, or sit she low,Be she far off, or be she near,There is no bird so fair, so fine,Nor yet so fresh as this of mine;For when she once hath felt a fit,Philip will cry still:Yet, yet, yet.Come in a morning merrilyWhen Philip hath been lately fed;Or in an evening soberlyWhen Philip list to go to bed;It is a heaven to hear my Phipp,How she can chirp with merry lip,For when she once hath felt a fit,Philip will cry still:Yet, yet, yet.She never wanders far abroad,But is at home when I do call.If I command she lays on load[68]With lips, with teeth, with tongue and all.She chants, she chirps, she makes such cheer,That I believe she hath no peer.For when she once hath felt the fit,Philip will cry still:Yet, yet, yet.And yet besides all this good sportMy Philip can both sing and dance,With new found toys of sundry sortMy Philip can both prick and prance.And if you say but: Fend cut,[69]Phipp!Lord, how the peat[70]will turn and skip!For when she once hath felt the fit,Philip will cry still:Yet, yet, yet.And to tell truth he were to blame—Having so fine a bird as she,To make him all this goodly gameWithout suspect or jealousy—He were a churl and knew no good,Would see her faint for lack of food,For when she once hath felt the fit,Philip will cry still:Yet, yet, yet.
Of all the birds that I do know,Philip my sparrow hath no peer;For sit she high, or sit she low,Be she far off, or be she near,There is no bird so fair, so fine,Nor yet so fresh as this of mine;For when she once hath felt a fit,Philip will cry still:Yet, yet, yet.Come in a morning merrilyWhen Philip hath been lately fed;Or in an evening soberlyWhen Philip list to go to bed;It is a heaven to hear my Phipp,How she can chirp with merry lip,For when she once hath felt a fit,Philip will cry still:Yet, yet, yet.She never wanders far abroad,But is at home when I do call.If I command she lays on load[68]With lips, with teeth, with tongue and all.She chants, she chirps, she makes such cheer,That I believe she hath no peer.For when she once hath felt the fit,Philip will cry still:Yet, yet, yet.And yet besides all this good sportMy Philip can both sing and dance,With new found toys of sundry sortMy Philip can both prick and prance.And if you say but: Fend cut,[69]Phipp!Lord, how the peat[70]will turn and skip!For when she once hath felt the fit,Philip will cry still:Yet, yet, yet.And to tell truth he were to blame—Having so fine a bird as she,To make him all this goodly gameWithout suspect or jealousy—He were a churl and knew no good,Would see her faint for lack of food,For when she once hath felt the fit,Philip will cry still:Yet, yet, yet.
Of all the birds that I do know,Philip my sparrow hath no peer;For sit she high, or sit she low,Be she far off, or be she near,There is no bird so fair, so fine,Nor yet so fresh as this of mine;For when she once hath felt a fit,Philip will cry still:Yet, yet, yet.
Of all the birds that I do know,
Philip my sparrow hath no peer;
For sit she high, or sit she low,
Be she far off, or be she near,
There is no bird so fair, so fine,
Nor yet so fresh as this of mine;
For when she once hath felt a fit,
Philip will cry still:Yet, yet, yet.
Come in a morning merrilyWhen Philip hath been lately fed;Or in an evening soberlyWhen Philip list to go to bed;It is a heaven to hear my Phipp,How she can chirp with merry lip,For when she once hath felt a fit,Philip will cry still:Yet, yet, yet.
Come in a morning merrily
When Philip hath been lately fed;
Or in an evening soberly
When Philip list to go to bed;
It is a heaven to hear my Phipp,
How she can chirp with merry lip,
For when she once hath felt a fit,
Philip will cry still:Yet, yet, yet.
She never wanders far abroad,But is at home when I do call.If I command she lays on load[68]With lips, with teeth, with tongue and all.She chants, she chirps, she makes such cheer,That I believe she hath no peer.For when she once hath felt the fit,Philip will cry still:Yet, yet, yet.
She never wanders far abroad,
But is at home when I do call.
If I command she lays on load[68]
With lips, with teeth, with tongue and all.
She chants, she chirps, she makes such cheer,
That I believe she hath no peer.
For when she once hath felt the fit,
Philip will cry still:Yet, yet, yet.
And yet besides all this good sportMy Philip can both sing and dance,With new found toys of sundry sortMy Philip can both prick and prance.And if you say but: Fend cut,[69]Phipp!Lord, how the peat[70]will turn and skip!For when she once hath felt the fit,Philip will cry still:Yet, yet, yet.
And yet besides all this good sport
My Philip can both sing and dance,
With new found toys of sundry sort
My Philip can both prick and prance.
And if you say but: Fend cut,[69]Phipp!
Lord, how the peat[70]will turn and skip!
For when she once hath felt the fit,
Philip will cry still:Yet, yet, yet.
And to tell truth he were to blame—Having so fine a bird as she,To make him all this goodly gameWithout suspect or jealousy—He were a churl and knew no good,Would see her faint for lack of food,For when she once hath felt the fit,Philip will cry still:Yet, yet, yet.
And to tell truth he were to blame—
Having so fine a bird as she,
To make him all this goodly game
Without suspect or jealousy—
He were a churl and knew no good,
Would see her faint for lack of food,
For when she once hath felt the fit,
Philip will cry still:Yet, yet, yet.
102
THE DEAD SPARROWTell me not of joy: there's none,Now my little Sparrow's gone:He, just as you,Would try and woo,He would chirp and flatter me;He would hang the wing awhile—Till at length he saw me smileLord, how sullen he would be!He would catch a crumb, and thenSporting, let it go agen;He from my lipWould moisture sip;He would from my trencher feed;Then would hop, and then would run,And cryPhilipwhen he'd done.O! whose heart can choose but bleed?O how eager would he fight,And ne'er hurt, though he did bite.No morn did pass,But on my glassHe would sit, and mark and doWhat I did—now ruffle allHis feathers o'er, now let'em fall;And then straightway sleek them too.Whence will Cupid get his dartsFeathered now to pierce our hearts?A wound he mayNot, Love, convey,Now this faithful bird is gone;O let mournful turtles joinWith loving red-breasts, and combineTo sing dirges o'er his stone!William Cartwright
Tell me not of joy: there's none,Now my little Sparrow's gone:He, just as you,Would try and woo,He would chirp and flatter me;He would hang the wing awhile—Till at length he saw me smileLord, how sullen he would be!He would catch a crumb, and thenSporting, let it go agen;He from my lipWould moisture sip;He would from my trencher feed;Then would hop, and then would run,And cryPhilipwhen he'd done.O! whose heart can choose but bleed?O how eager would he fight,And ne'er hurt, though he did bite.No morn did pass,But on my glassHe would sit, and mark and doWhat I did—now ruffle allHis feathers o'er, now let'em fall;And then straightway sleek them too.Whence will Cupid get his dartsFeathered now to pierce our hearts?A wound he mayNot, Love, convey,Now this faithful bird is gone;O let mournful turtles joinWith loving red-breasts, and combineTo sing dirges o'er his stone!William Cartwright
Tell me not of joy: there's none,Now my little Sparrow's gone:He, just as you,Would try and woo,He would chirp and flatter me;He would hang the wing awhile—Till at length he saw me smileLord, how sullen he would be!
Tell me not of joy: there's none,
Now my little Sparrow's gone:
He, just as you,
Would try and woo,
He would chirp and flatter me;
He would hang the wing awhile—
Till at length he saw me smile
Lord, how sullen he would be!
He would catch a crumb, and thenSporting, let it go agen;He from my lipWould moisture sip;He would from my trencher feed;Then would hop, and then would run,And cryPhilipwhen he'd done.O! whose heart can choose but bleed?
He would catch a crumb, and then
Sporting, let it go agen;
He from my lip
Would moisture sip;
He would from my trencher feed;
Then would hop, and then would run,
And cryPhilipwhen he'd done.
O! whose heart can choose but bleed?
O how eager would he fight,And ne'er hurt, though he did bite.No morn did pass,But on my glassHe would sit, and mark and doWhat I did—now ruffle allHis feathers o'er, now let'em fall;And then straightway sleek them too.
O how eager would he fight,
And ne'er hurt, though he did bite.
No morn did pass,
But on my glass
He would sit, and mark and do
What I did—now ruffle all
His feathers o'er, now let'em fall;
And then straightway sleek them too.
Whence will Cupid get his dartsFeathered now to pierce our hearts?A wound he mayNot, Love, convey,Now this faithful bird is gone;O let mournful turtles joinWith loving red-breasts, and combineTo sing dirges o'er his stone!William Cartwright
Whence will Cupid get his darts
Feathered now to pierce our hearts?
A wound he may
Not, Love, convey,
Now this faithful bird is gone;
O let mournful turtles join
With loving red-breasts, and combine
To sing dirges o'er his stone!
William Cartwright
103
ON A LITTLE BIRDHere lies a little bird.Once all day longIn Martha's house was heardHis rippling song.Tread lightly where he liesBeneath this stoneWith nerveless wings, closed eyes,And sweet voice gone.Martin Armstrong
Here lies a little bird.Once all day longIn Martha's house was heardHis rippling song.Tread lightly where he liesBeneath this stoneWith nerveless wings, closed eyes,And sweet voice gone.Martin Armstrong
Here lies a little bird.Once all day longIn Martha's house was heardHis rippling song.
Here lies a little bird.
Once all day long
In Martha's house was heard
His rippling song.
Tread lightly where he liesBeneath this stoneWith nerveless wings, closed eyes,And sweet voice gone.Martin Armstrong
Tread lightly where he lies
Beneath this stone
With nerveless wings, closed eyes,
And sweet voice gone.
Martin Armstrong
104
ADLESTROPYes. I remember Adlestrop—The name, because one afternoonOf heat the express-train drew up thereUnwontedly. It was late June.The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.No one left and no one cameOn the bare platform. What I sawWas Adlestrop—only the nameAnd willows, willow-herb, and grass,And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,No whit less still and lonely fairThan the high cloudlets in the sky.And for that minute a blackbird sangClose by, and round him, mistier,Farther and farther, all the birdsOf Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.Edward Thomas
Yes. I remember Adlestrop—The name, because one afternoonOf heat the express-train drew up thereUnwontedly. It was late June.The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.No one left and no one cameOn the bare platform. What I sawWas Adlestrop—only the nameAnd willows, willow-herb, and grass,And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,No whit less still and lonely fairThan the high cloudlets in the sky.And for that minute a blackbird sangClose by, and round him, mistier,Farther and farther, all the birdsOf Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.Edward Thomas
Yes. I remember Adlestrop—The name, because one afternoonOf heat the express-train drew up thereUnwontedly. It was late June.
Yes. I remember Adlestrop—
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.
The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.No one left and no one cameOn the bare platform. What I sawWas Adlestrop—only the name
The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.
No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop—only the name
And willows, willow-herb, and grass,And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,No whit less still and lonely fairThan the high cloudlets in the sky.
And willows, willow-herb, and grass,
And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.
And for that minute a blackbird sangClose by, and round him, mistier,Farther and farther, all the birdsOf Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.Edward Thomas
And for that minute a blackbird sang
Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
Edward Thomas
105
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSANAt the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heardIn the silence of morning the song of the bird.'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She seesA mountain ascending, a vision of trees;Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.Green pastures she views in the midst of the daleDown which she so often has tripped with her pail;And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!William Wordsworth
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heardIn the silence of morning the song of the bird.'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She seesA mountain ascending, a vision of trees;Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.Green pastures she views in the midst of the daleDown which she so often has tripped with her pail;And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!William Wordsworth
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heardIn the silence of morning the song of the bird.
At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the bird.
'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She seesA mountain ascending, a vision of trees;Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the daleDown which she so often has tripped with her pail;And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!William Wordsworth
She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade;
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!
William Wordsworth
106
THE THRUSH'S SONGDear, dear, dear,Is the rocky glen.Far away, far away, far awayThe haunts of men.Here shall we dwell in loveWith the lark and the dove,Cuckoo and cornrail;Feast on the banded snail,Worm and gilded fly;Drink of the crystal rillWinding adown the hill,Never to dry.With glee, with glee, with glee,Cheer up, cheer up, cheer up, hereNothing to harm us, then sing merrily,Sing to the loved ones whose nest is near—Qui, qui, qui, kweeu quip,Tiurru, tiurru, chipiwi,Too-tee, too-tee, chiu choo,Chirri, chirri, chooee,Quiu, qui, qui.W. Macgillivray
Dear, dear, dear,Is the rocky glen.Far away, far away, far awayThe haunts of men.Here shall we dwell in loveWith the lark and the dove,Cuckoo and cornrail;Feast on the banded snail,Worm and gilded fly;Drink of the crystal rillWinding adown the hill,Never to dry.With glee, with glee, with glee,Cheer up, cheer up, cheer up, hereNothing to harm us, then sing merrily,Sing to the loved ones whose nest is near—Qui, qui, qui, kweeu quip,Tiurru, tiurru, chipiwi,Too-tee, too-tee, chiu choo,Chirri, chirri, chooee,Quiu, qui, qui.W. Macgillivray
Dear, dear, dear,Is the rocky glen.Far away, far away, far awayThe haunts of men.
Dear, dear, dear,
Is the rocky glen.
Far away, far away, far away
The haunts of men.
Here shall we dwell in loveWith the lark and the dove,Cuckoo and cornrail;Feast on the banded snail,Worm and gilded fly;Drink of the crystal rillWinding adown the hill,Never to dry.
Here shall we dwell in love
With the lark and the dove,
Cuckoo and cornrail;
Feast on the banded snail,
Worm and gilded fly;
Drink of the crystal rill
Winding adown the hill,
Never to dry.
With glee, with glee, with glee,Cheer up, cheer up, cheer up, hereNothing to harm us, then sing merrily,Sing to the loved ones whose nest is near—Qui, qui, qui, kweeu quip,Tiurru, tiurru, chipiwi,Too-tee, too-tee, chiu choo,Chirri, chirri, chooee,Quiu, qui, qui.W. Macgillivray
With glee, with glee, with glee,
Cheer up, cheer up, cheer up, here
Nothing to harm us, then sing merrily,
Sing to the loved ones whose nest is near—
Qui, qui, qui, kweeu quip,
Tiurru, tiurru, chipiwi,
Too-tee, too-tee, chiu choo,
Chirri, chirri, chooee,
Quiu, qui, qui.
W. Macgillivray
107
SWEET SUFFOLK OWLSweet Suffolk Owl, so trimly dightWith feathers, like a lady bright,Thou sing'st alone, sitting by night,Te whit! Te whoo! Te whit! To whit!Thy note that forth so freely rollsWith shrill command the mouse controls;And sings a dirge for dying souls—Te whit! Te whoo! Te whit! To whit!Thomas Vautor
Sweet Suffolk Owl, so trimly dightWith feathers, like a lady bright,Thou sing'st alone, sitting by night,Te whit! Te whoo! Te whit! To whit!Thy note that forth so freely rollsWith shrill command the mouse controls;And sings a dirge for dying souls—Te whit! Te whoo! Te whit! To whit!Thomas Vautor
Sweet Suffolk Owl, so trimly dightWith feathers, like a lady bright,Thou sing'st alone, sitting by night,Te whit! Te whoo! Te whit! To whit!
Sweet Suffolk Owl, so trimly dight
With feathers, like a lady bright,
Thou sing'st alone, sitting by night,
Te whit! Te whoo! Te whit! To whit!
Thy note that forth so freely rollsWith shrill command the mouse controls;And sings a dirge for dying souls—Te whit! Te whoo! Te whit! To whit!Thomas Vautor
Thy note that forth so freely rolls
With shrill command the mouse controls;
And sings a dirge for dying souls—
Te whit! Te whoo! Te whit! To whit!
Thomas Vautor
108
WHO? WHO?"Who—Who—the bride will be?""The owl she the bride shall be."The owl quoth,Again to them both,"I am sure a grim ladye;Not I the bride can be,I not the bride can be!"
"Who—Who—the bride will be?""The owl she the bride shall be."The owl quoth,Again to them both,"I am sure a grim ladye;Not I the bride can be,I not the bride can be!"
"Who—Who—the bride will be?""The owl she the bride shall be."The owl quoth,Again to them both,"I am sure a grim ladye;Not I the bride can be,I not the bride can be!"
"Who—Who—the bride will be?"
"The owl she the bride shall be."
The owl quoth,
Again to them both,
"I am sure a grim ladye;
Not I the bride can be,
I not the bride can be!"
109
WHEN CATS RUN HOMEWhen cats run home and light is come,And dew is cold upon the ground,And the far-off stream is dumb,And the whirring sail goes round,And the whirring sail goes round;Alone and warming his five wits,The white owl in the belfry sits.When merry milkmaids click the latch,And rarely smells the new-mown hay,And the cock hath sung beneath the thatchTwice or thrice his roundelay,Twice or thrice his roundelay;Alone and warming his five wits,The white owl in the belfry sits.Alfred, Lord Tennyson
When cats run home and light is come,And dew is cold upon the ground,And the far-off stream is dumb,And the whirring sail goes round,And the whirring sail goes round;Alone and warming his five wits,The white owl in the belfry sits.When merry milkmaids click the latch,And rarely smells the new-mown hay,And the cock hath sung beneath the thatchTwice or thrice his roundelay,Twice or thrice his roundelay;Alone and warming his five wits,The white owl in the belfry sits.Alfred, Lord Tennyson
When cats run home and light is come,And dew is cold upon the ground,And the far-off stream is dumb,And the whirring sail goes round,And the whirring sail goes round;Alone and warming his five wits,The white owl in the belfry sits.
When cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,
And the whirring sail goes round,
And the whirring sail goes round;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
When merry milkmaids click the latch,And rarely smells the new-mown hay,And the cock hath sung beneath the thatchTwice or thrice his roundelay,Twice or thrice his roundelay;Alone and warming his five wits,The white owl in the belfry sits.Alfred, Lord Tennyson
When merry milkmaids click the latch,
And rarely smells the new-mown hay,
And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch
Twice or thrice his roundelay,
Twice or thrice his roundelay;
Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
110
ONCEOnce I was a monarch's daughter,And sat on a lady's knee;But am now a nightly rover,Banished to the ivy tree.Crying hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo,Hoo, hoo, hoo, my feet are cold.Pity me, for here you see mePersecuted, poor, and old.
Once I was a monarch's daughter,And sat on a lady's knee;But am now a nightly rover,Banished to the ivy tree.Crying hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo,Hoo, hoo, hoo, my feet are cold.Pity me, for here you see mePersecuted, poor, and old.
Once I was a monarch's daughter,And sat on a lady's knee;But am now a nightly rover,Banished to the ivy tree.
Once I was a monarch's daughter,
And sat on a lady's knee;
But am now a nightly rover,
Banished to the ivy tree.
Crying hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo,Hoo, hoo, hoo, my feet are cold.Pity me, for here you see mePersecuted, poor, and old.
Crying hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo,
Hoo, hoo, hoo, my feet are cold.
Pity me, for here you see me
Persecuted, poor, and old.
111
THE WATER-OUSELWhere on the wrinkled stream the willows lean,And fling a very ecstasy of greenDown the dim crystal; and the chestnut treeAdmires her large-leaved shadow, swift and free,A water-ousel came, with such a flightAs archangels might envy. Soft and brightUpon a water-kissing bough she lit,And washed and preened her silver breast, though itWas dazzling fair before. Then twitteringShe sang, and made obeisance to the Spring.And in the wavering amber at her feetHer silent shadow, with obedience meet,Made her quick, imitative curtsies, too.Maybe she dreamed a nest, so safe and dear,Where the keen spray leaps whitely to the weir;And smooth, warm eggs that hold a mystery;And stirrings of life and twitterings, that sheIs passionately glad of; and a breastAs silver-white as hers, which without restOr languor, borne by spread wings swift and strong,Shall fly upon her service all day long.She hears a presage in the ancient thunderOf the silken fall, and her small soul in wonderMakes preparation as she deems most right,Repurifying what before was whiteAgainst the day when, like a beautiful dream,Two little ousels shall fly with her down stream,And even the poor, dumb shadow-bird shall flitWith two small shadows following after it.Mary Webb
Where on the wrinkled stream the willows lean,And fling a very ecstasy of greenDown the dim crystal; and the chestnut treeAdmires her large-leaved shadow, swift and free,A water-ousel came, with such a flightAs archangels might envy. Soft and brightUpon a water-kissing bough she lit,And washed and preened her silver breast, though itWas dazzling fair before. Then twitteringShe sang, and made obeisance to the Spring.And in the wavering amber at her feetHer silent shadow, with obedience meet,Made her quick, imitative curtsies, too.Maybe she dreamed a nest, so safe and dear,Where the keen spray leaps whitely to the weir;And smooth, warm eggs that hold a mystery;And stirrings of life and twitterings, that sheIs passionately glad of; and a breastAs silver-white as hers, which without restOr languor, borne by spread wings swift and strong,Shall fly upon her service all day long.She hears a presage in the ancient thunderOf the silken fall, and her small soul in wonderMakes preparation as she deems most right,Repurifying what before was whiteAgainst the day when, like a beautiful dream,Two little ousels shall fly with her down stream,And even the poor, dumb shadow-bird shall flitWith two small shadows following after it.Mary Webb
Where on the wrinkled stream the willows lean,And fling a very ecstasy of greenDown the dim crystal; and the chestnut treeAdmires her large-leaved shadow, swift and free,A water-ousel came, with such a flightAs archangels might envy. Soft and brightUpon a water-kissing bough she lit,And washed and preened her silver breast, though itWas dazzling fair before. Then twitteringShe sang, and made obeisance to the Spring.And in the wavering amber at her feetHer silent shadow, with obedience meet,Made her quick, imitative curtsies, too.Maybe she dreamed a nest, so safe and dear,Where the keen spray leaps whitely to the weir;And smooth, warm eggs that hold a mystery;And stirrings of life and twitterings, that sheIs passionately glad of; and a breastAs silver-white as hers, which without restOr languor, borne by spread wings swift and strong,Shall fly upon her service all day long.She hears a presage in the ancient thunderOf the silken fall, and her small soul in wonderMakes preparation as she deems most right,Repurifying what before was whiteAgainst the day when, like a beautiful dream,Two little ousels shall fly with her down stream,And even the poor, dumb shadow-bird shall flitWith two small shadows following after it.Mary Webb
Where on the wrinkled stream the willows lean,
And fling a very ecstasy of green
Down the dim crystal; and the chestnut tree
Admires her large-leaved shadow, swift and free,
A water-ousel came, with such a flight
As archangels might envy. Soft and bright
Upon a water-kissing bough she lit,
And washed and preened her silver breast, though it
Was dazzling fair before. Then twittering
She sang, and made obeisance to the Spring.
And in the wavering amber at her feet
Her silent shadow, with obedience meet,
Made her quick, imitative curtsies, too.
Maybe she dreamed a nest, so safe and dear,
Where the keen spray leaps whitely to the weir;
And smooth, warm eggs that hold a mystery;
And stirrings of life and twitterings, that she
Is passionately glad of; and a breast
As silver-white as hers, which without rest
Or languor, borne by spread wings swift and strong,
Shall fly upon her service all day long.
She hears a presage in the ancient thunder
Of the silken fall, and her small soul in wonder
Makes preparation as she deems most right,
Repurifying what before was white
Against the day when, like a beautiful dream,
Two little ousels shall fly with her down stream,
And even the poor, dumb shadow-bird shall flit
With two small shadows following after it.
Mary Webb
112
L'OISEAU BLEUThe lake lay blue below the hill.O'er it, as I looked, there flewAcross the waters, cold and still,A bird whose wings were palest blue.The sky above was blue at last,The sky beneath me blue in blue.A moment, ere the bird had passed,It caught his image as he flew.Mary Coleridge
The lake lay blue below the hill.O'er it, as I looked, there flewAcross the waters, cold and still,A bird whose wings were palest blue.The sky above was blue at last,The sky beneath me blue in blue.A moment, ere the bird had passed,It caught his image as he flew.Mary Coleridge
The lake lay blue below the hill.O'er it, as I looked, there flewAcross the waters, cold and still,A bird whose wings were palest blue.
The lake lay blue below the hill.
O'er it, as I looked, there flew
Across the waters, cold and still,
A bird whose wings were palest blue.
The sky above was blue at last,The sky beneath me blue in blue.A moment, ere the bird had passed,It caught his image as he flew.Mary Coleridge
The sky above was blue at last,
The sky beneath me blue in blue.
A moment, ere the bird had passed,
It caught his image as he flew.
Mary Coleridge
113
I HAD A DOVEI had a dove and the sweet dove died;And I have thought it died of grieving:O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied,With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving;Sweet little red feet! why should you die—Why should you leave me, sweet bird! Why?You lived alone in the forest-tree,Why, pretty thing I would you not live with me?I kissed you oft and gave you white peas;Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?John Keats
I had a dove and the sweet dove died;And I have thought it died of grieving:O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied,With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving;Sweet little red feet! why should you die—Why should you leave me, sweet bird! Why?You lived alone in the forest-tree,Why, pretty thing I would you not live with me?I kissed you oft and gave you white peas;Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?John Keats
I had a dove and the sweet dove died;And I have thought it died of grieving:O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied,With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving;Sweet little red feet! why should you die—Why should you leave me, sweet bird! Why?You lived alone in the forest-tree,Why, pretty thing I would you not live with me?I kissed you oft and gave you white peas;Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?John Keats
I had a dove and the sweet dove died;
And I have thought it died of grieving:
O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied,
With a silken thread of my own hand's weaving;
Sweet little red feet! why should you die—
Why should you leave me, sweet bird! Why?
You lived alone in the forest-tree,
Why, pretty thing I would you not live with me?
I kissed you oft and gave you white peas;
Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?
John Keats
114
PHILOMELAs it fell upon a dayIn the merry month of May,Sitting in a pleasant shadeWhich a grove of myrtles made,Beasts did leap and birds did sing,Trees did grow and plants did spring;Everything did banish moanSave the Nightingale alone:She, poor bird, as all forlornLeaned her breast up-till a thorn,And there sung the doleful'st ditty.That to hear it was great pity.Fie, fie, fie!now would she cry;Tereu, tereu!by and by;That to hear her so complainScarce I could from tears refrain;For her griefs so lively shownMade me think upon mine own.Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,None takes pity on thy pain:Senseless trees they cannot hear thee,Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:King Pandion he is dead,All thy friends are lapped in lead;All thy fellow birds do singCareless of thy sorrowing:Even so, poor bird, like thee,None alive will pity me.Richard Barnfield
As it fell upon a dayIn the merry month of May,Sitting in a pleasant shadeWhich a grove of myrtles made,Beasts did leap and birds did sing,Trees did grow and plants did spring;Everything did banish moanSave the Nightingale alone:She, poor bird, as all forlornLeaned her breast up-till a thorn,And there sung the doleful'st ditty.That to hear it was great pity.Fie, fie, fie!now would she cry;Tereu, tereu!by and by;That to hear her so complainScarce I could from tears refrain;For her griefs so lively shownMade me think upon mine own.Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,None takes pity on thy pain:Senseless trees they cannot hear thee,Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:King Pandion he is dead,All thy friends are lapped in lead;All thy fellow birds do singCareless of thy sorrowing:Even so, poor bird, like thee,None alive will pity me.Richard Barnfield
As it fell upon a dayIn the merry month of May,Sitting in a pleasant shadeWhich a grove of myrtles made,Beasts did leap and birds did sing,Trees did grow and plants did spring;Everything did banish moanSave the Nightingale alone:She, poor bird, as all forlornLeaned her breast up-till a thorn,And there sung the doleful'st ditty.That to hear it was great pity.
As it fell upon a day
In the merry month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade
Which a grove of myrtles made,
Beasts did leap and birds did sing,
Trees did grow and plants did spring;
Everything did banish moan
Save the Nightingale alone:
She, poor bird, as all forlorn
Leaned her breast up-till a thorn,
And there sung the doleful'st ditty.
That to hear it was great pity.
Fie, fie, fie!now would she cry;Tereu, tereu!by and by;That to hear her so complainScarce I could from tears refrain;For her griefs so lively shownMade me think upon mine own.Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,None takes pity on thy pain:Senseless trees they cannot hear thee,Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:King Pandion he is dead,All thy friends are lapped in lead;All thy fellow birds do singCareless of thy sorrowing:Even so, poor bird, like thee,None alive will pity me.Richard Barnfield
Fie, fie, fie!now would she cry;
Tereu, tereu!by and by;
That to hear her so complain
Scarce I could from tears refrain;
For her griefs so lively shown
Made me think upon mine own.
Ah! thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,
None takes pity on thy pain:
Senseless trees they cannot hear thee,
Ruthless beasts they will not cheer thee:
King Pandion he is dead,
All thy friends are lapped in lead;
All thy fellow birds do sing
Careless of thy sorrowing:
Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.
Richard Barnfield
115
A SPARROW-HAWKA sparhawk proud did hold in wicked jailMusic's sweet chorister, the Nightingale;To whom with sighs she said: "O set me free,And in my song I'll praise no bird but thee."The Hawk replied: "I will not lose my dietTo let a thousand such enjoy their quiet."
A sparhawk proud did hold in wicked jailMusic's sweet chorister, the Nightingale;To whom with sighs she said: "O set me free,And in my song I'll praise no bird but thee."The Hawk replied: "I will not lose my dietTo let a thousand such enjoy their quiet."
A sparhawk proud did hold in wicked jailMusic's sweet chorister, the Nightingale;To whom with sighs she said: "O set me free,And in my song I'll praise no bird but thee."The Hawk replied: "I will not lose my dietTo let a thousand such enjoy their quiet."
A sparhawk proud did hold in wicked jail
Music's sweet chorister, the Nightingale;
To whom with sighs she said: "O set me free,
And in my song I'll praise no bird but thee."
The Hawk replied: "I will not lose my diet
To let a thousand such enjoy their quiet."
116
THE EAGLEHe clasps the crag with crooked hands;Close to the sun in lonely lands,Ringed with the azure world, he stands.The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;He watches from his mountain walls,And like a thunderbolt he falls.Alfred, Lord Tennyson
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;Close to the sun in lonely lands,Ringed with the azure world, he stands.The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;He watches from his mountain walls,And like a thunderbolt he falls.Alfred, Lord Tennyson
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;Close to the sun in lonely lands,Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;He watches from his mountain walls,And like a thunderbolt he falls.Alfred, Lord Tennyson
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
117
THE TWA CORBIESAs I was walking all alane,I heard twa corbies making a mane,And tane unto the tither say:—"Where sall we gang and dine to-day?""—In behint yon auld fail dyke,[71]I wat there lies a new-slain Knight;And naebody kens that he lies thereBut his hawk, his hound, and lady fair."His hound is to the hunting gane,His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,His lady's ta'en another mate,So we may mak our dinner sweet."Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,And I'll pick out his bonnie blue een.Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hairWe'll theek[72]our nest when it grows bare."Mony a one for him maks mane,But nane sall ken where he is gane.O'er his white banes, where they are bare,The wind sall blaw for evermair."
As I was walking all alane,I heard twa corbies making a mane,And tane unto the tither say:—"Where sall we gang and dine to-day?""—In behint yon auld fail dyke,[71]I wat there lies a new-slain Knight;And naebody kens that he lies thereBut his hawk, his hound, and lady fair."His hound is to the hunting gane,His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,His lady's ta'en another mate,So we may mak our dinner sweet."Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,And I'll pick out his bonnie blue een.Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hairWe'll theek[72]our nest when it grows bare."Mony a one for him maks mane,But nane sall ken where he is gane.O'er his white banes, where they are bare,The wind sall blaw for evermair."
As I was walking all alane,I heard twa corbies making a mane,And tane unto the tither say:—"Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"
As I was walking all alane,
I heard twa corbies making a mane,
And tane unto the tither say:—
"Where sall we gang and dine to-day?"
"—In behint yon auld fail dyke,[71]I wat there lies a new-slain Knight;And naebody kens that he lies thereBut his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
"—In behint yon auld fail dyke,[71]
I wat there lies a new-slain Knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
"His hound is to the hunting gane,His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,His lady's ta'en another mate,So we may mak our dinner sweet.
"His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady's ta'en another mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.
"Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,And I'll pick out his bonnie blue een.Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hairWe'll theek[72]our nest when it grows bare.
"Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pick out his bonnie blue een.
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair
We'll theek[72]our nest when it grows bare.
"Mony a one for him maks mane,But nane sall ken where he is gane.O'er his white banes, where they are bare,The wind sall blaw for evermair."
"Mony a one for him maks mane,
But nane sall ken where he is gane.
O'er his white banes, where they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair."
118
IN THE WILDERNESSChrist of His gentlenessThirsting and hungeringWalked in the wilderness;Soft words of grace He spokeUnto lost desert-folkThat listened wondering.He heard the bitterns callFrom ruined palace-wall,Answered them brotherly.He held communionWith the she-pelicanOf lonely piety.Basilisk, cockatrice,Flocked to His homilies,With mail of dread device,With monstrous barbèd stings,With eager dragon-eyes;Great rats on leather wingsAnd poor blind broken things,Foul in their miseries.And ever with Him went,Of all His wanderingsComrade, with ragged coat,Gaunt ribs—poor innocent—Bleeding foot, burning throat,The guileless old scape-goat;For forty nights and daysFollowed in Jesus' ways,Sure guard behind Him kept,Tears like a lover wept.Robert Graves
Christ of His gentlenessThirsting and hungeringWalked in the wilderness;Soft words of grace He spokeUnto lost desert-folkThat listened wondering.He heard the bitterns callFrom ruined palace-wall,Answered them brotherly.He held communionWith the she-pelicanOf lonely piety.Basilisk, cockatrice,Flocked to His homilies,With mail of dread device,With monstrous barbèd stings,With eager dragon-eyes;Great rats on leather wingsAnd poor blind broken things,Foul in their miseries.And ever with Him went,Of all His wanderingsComrade, with ragged coat,Gaunt ribs—poor innocent—Bleeding foot, burning throat,The guileless old scape-goat;For forty nights and daysFollowed in Jesus' ways,Sure guard behind Him kept,Tears like a lover wept.Robert Graves
Christ of His gentlenessThirsting and hungeringWalked in the wilderness;Soft words of grace He spokeUnto lost desert-folkThat listened wondering.He heard the bitterns callFrom ruined palace-wall,Answered them brotherly.He held communionWith the she-pelicanOf lonely piety.Basilisk, cockatrice,Flocked to His homilies,With mail of dread device,With monstrous barbèd stings,With eager dragon-eyes;Great rats on leather wingsAnd poor blind broken things,Foul in their miseries.And ever with Him went,Of all His wanderingsComrade, with ragged coat,Gaunt ribs—poor innocent—Bleeding foot, burning throat,The guileless old scape-goat;For forty nights and daysFollowed in Jesus' ways,Sure guard behind Him kept,Tears like a lover wept.Robert Graves
Christ of His gentleness
Thirsting and hungering
Walked in the wilderness;
Soft words of grace He spoke
Unto lost desert-folk
That listened wondering.
He heard the bitterns call
From ruined palace-wall,
Answered them brotherly.
He held communion
With the she-pelican
Of lonely piety.
Basilisk, cockatrice,
Flocked to His homilies,
With mail of dread device,
With monstrous barbèd stings,
With eager dragon-eyes;
Great rats on leather wings
And poor blind broken things,
Foul in their miseries.
And ever with Him went,
Of all His wanderings
Comrade, with ragged coat,
Gaunt ribs—poor innocent—
Bleeding foot, burning throat,
The guileless old scape-goat;
For forty nights and days
Followed in Jesus' ways,
Sure guard behind Him kept,
Tears like a lover wept.
Robert Graves
119
STUPIDITY STREETI saw with open eyesSinging birds sweetSold in the shopsFor the people to eat,Sold in the shops ofStupidity Street.I saw in visionThe worm in the wheat,And in the shops nothingFor people to eat;Nothing for sale inStupidity Street.Ralph Hodgson
I saw with open eyesSinging birds sweetSold in the shopsFor the people to eat,Sold in the shops ofStupidity Street.I saw in visionThe worm in the wheat,And in the shops nothingFor people to eat;Nothing for sale inStupidity Street.Ralph Hodgson
I saw with open eyesSinging birds sweetSold in the shopsFor the people to eat,Sold in the shops ofStupidity Street.
I saw with open eyes
Singing birds sweet
Sold in the shops
For the people to eat,
Sold in the shops of
Stupidity Street.
I saw in visionThe worm in the wheat,And in the shops nothingFor people to eat;Nothing for sale inStupidity Street.Ralph Hodgson
I saw in vision
The worm in the wheat,
And in the shops nothing
For people to eat;
Nothing for sale in
Stupidity Street.
Ralph Hodgson
120
COME WARY ONE"'Come wary one, come slender feet,Come pretty bird and sing to me,I have a cage of wizard woodWith perch of ebony;Come pretty bird, there's dainty food,There's cherry, plum, and strawberry,In my red cage, my wizard cage,The cage I made for thee.'"The bird flew down, the bird flew in,The cherries they were dried and dead,She tied him with a silken skeinTo a perch of molten lead;And first most dire he did complain,And next he sulky sad did fall,Chained to his perch, his burning perch,He would not sing at all."There came an elf, a silent elf,A silver wand hung by his side,And when that wand lay on the door,The door did open wide.The pretty bird with beak he toreThat silken skein, then out flew he,From that red cage, that greedy cage,That cage of wizardry."Ruth Manning-Sanders
"'Come wary one, come slender feet,Come pretty bird and sing to me,I have a cage of wizard woodWith perch of ebony;Come pretty bird, there's dainty food,There's cherry, plum, and strawberry,In my red cage, my wizard cage,The cage I made for thee.'"The bird flew down, the bird flew in,The cherries they were dried and dead,She tied him with a silken skeinTo a perch of molten lead;And first most dire he did complain,And next he sulky sad did fall,Chained to his perch, his burning perch,He would not sing at all."There came an elf, a silent elf,A silver wand hung by his side,And when that wand lay on the door,The door did open wide.The pretty bird with beak he toreThat silken skein, then out flew he,From that red cage, that greedy cage,That cage of wizardry."Ruth Manning-Sanders
"'Come wary one, come slender feet,Come pretty bird and sing to me,I have a cage of wizard woodWith perch of ebony;Come pretty bird, there's dainty food,There's cherry, plum, and strawberry,In my red cage, my wizard cage,The cage I made for thee.'
"'Come wary one, come slender feet,
Come pretty bird and sing to me,
I have a cage of wizard wood
With perch of ebony;
Come pretty bird, there's dainty food,
There's cherry, plum, and strawberry,
In my red cage, my wizard cage,
The cage I made for thee.'
"The bird flew down, the bird flew in,The cherries they were dried and dead,She tied him with a silken skeinTo a perch of molten lead;And first most dire he did complain,And next he sulky sad did fall,Chained to his perch, his burning perch,He would not sing at all.
"The bird flew down, the bird flew in,
The cherries they were dried and dead,
She tied him with a silken skein
To a perch of molten lead;
And first most dire he did complain,
And next he sulky sad did fall,
Chained to his perch, his burning perch,
He would not sing at all.
"There came an elf, a silent elf,A silver wand hung by his side,And when that wand lay on the door,The door did open wide.The pretty bird with beak he toreThat silken skein, then out flew he,From that red cage, that greedy cage,That cage of wizardry."Ruth Manning-Sanders
"There came an elf, a silent elf,
A silver wand hung by his side,
And when that wand lay on the door,
The door did open wide.
The pretty bird with beak he tore
That silken skein, then out flew he,
From that red cage, that greedy cage,
That cage of wizardry."
Ruth Manning-Sanders
121
UPON THE LARK AND THE FOWLERThou simple Bird what mak'st thou here to play?Look, there's the Fowler, prethee come away.Dost not behold the Net? Look there 'tis spread,Venture a little further thou art dead.Is there not room enough in all the FieldFor thee to play in, but thou needs must yieldTo the deceitful glitt'ring of a Glass,Placed betwixt Nets to bring thy death to pass?Bird, if thou art so much for dazling light,Look, there's the Sun above thee, dart upright.Thy nature is to soar up to the Sky,Why wilt thou come down to the nets, and dye?Take no heed to the Fowler's tempting Call;This whistle he enchanteth Birds withal.Or if thou seest a live Bird in his net,Believe she's there 'cause thence she cannot get.Look how he tempteth thee with his Decoy,That he may rob thee of thy Life, thy Joy:Come, prethee Bird, I prethee come away,Why should this net thee take, when 'scape thou may?Hadst thou not Wings, or were thy feathers pulled,Or wast thou blind or fast asleep wer't lulled:The case would somewhat alter, but for thee,Thy eyes are ope, and thou hast Wings to see.Remember that thy Song is in thy Rise,Not in thy Fall, Earth's not thy Paradise.Keep up aloft then, let thy circuits beAbove, where Birds from Fowlers nets are free....John Bunyan
Thou simple Bird what mak'st thou here to play?Look, there's the Fowler, prethee come away.Dost not behold the Net? Look there 'tis spread,Venture a little further thou art dead.Is there not room enough in all the FieldFor thee to play in, but thou needs must yieldTo the deceitful glitt'ring of a Glass,Placed betwixt Nets to bring thy death to pass?Bird, if thou art so much for dazling light,Look, there's the Sun above thee, dart upright.Thy nature is to soar up to the Sky,Why wilt thou come down to the nets, and dye?Take no heed to the Fowler's tempting Call;This whistle he enchanteth Birds withal.Or if thou seest a live Bird in his net,Believe she's there 'cause thence she cannot get.Look how he tempteth thee with his Decoy,That he may rob thee of thy Life, thy Joy:Come, prethee Bird, I prethee come away,Why should this net thee take, when 'scape thou may?Hadst thou not Wings, or were thy feathers pulled,Or wast thou blind or fast asleep wer't lulled:The case would somewhat alter, but for thee,Thy eyes are ope, and thou hast Wings to see.Remember that thy Song is in thy Rise,Not in thy Fall, Earth's not thy Paradise.Keep up aloft then, let thy circuits beAbove, where Birds from Fowlers nets are free....John Bunyan
Thou simple Bird what mak'st thou here to play?Look, there's the Fowler, prethee come away.Dost not behold the Net? Look there 'tis spread,Venture a little further thou art dead.Is there not room enough in all the FieldFor thee to play in, but thou needs must yieldTo the deceitful glitt'ring of a Glass,Placed betwixt Nets to bring thy death to pass?Bird, if thou art so much for dazling light,Look, there's the Sun above thee, dart upright.Thy nature is to soar up to the Sky,Why wilt thou come down to the nets, and dye?Take no heed to the Fowler's tempting Call;This whistle he enchanteth Birds withal.Or if thou seest a live Bird in his net,Believe she's there 'cause thence she cannot get.Look how he tempteth thee with his Decoy,That he may rob thee of thy Life, thy Joy:Come, prethee Bird, I prethee come away,Why should this net thee take, when 'scape thou may?Hadst thou not Wings, or were thy feathers pulled,Or wast thou blind or fast asleep wer't lulled:The case would somewhat alter, but for thee,Thy eyes are ope, and thou hast Wings to see.Remember that thy Song is in thy Rise,Not in thy Fall, Earth's not thy Paradise.Keep up aloft then, let thy circuits beAbove, where Birds from Fowlers nets are free....John Bunyan
Thou simple Bird what mak'st thou here to play?
Look, there's the Fowler, prethee come away.
Dost not behold the Net? Look there 'tis spread,
Venture a little further thou art dead.
Is there not room enough in all the Field
For thee to play in, but thou needs must yield
To the deceitful glitt'ring of a Glass,
Placed betwixt Nets to bring thy death to pass?
Bird, if thou art so much for dazling light,
Look, there's the Sun above thee, dart upright.
Thy nature is to soar up to the Sky,
Why wilt thou come down to the nets, and dye?
Take no heed to the Fowler's tempting Call;
This whistle he enchanteth Birds withal.
Or if thou seest a live Bird in his net,
Believe she's there 'cause thence she cannot get.
Look how he tempteth thee with his Decoy,
That he may rob thee of thy Life, thy Joy:
Come, prethee Bird, I prethee come away,
Why should this net thee take, when 'scape thou may?
Hadst thou not Wings, or were thy feathers pulled,
Or wast thou blind or fast asleep wer't lulled:
The case would somewhat alter, but for thee,
Thy eyes are ope, and thou hast Wings to see.
Remember that thy Song is in thy Rise,
Not in thy Fall, Earth's not thy Paradise.
Keep up aloft then, let thy circuits be
Above, where Birds from Fowlers nets are free....
John Bunyan